The High Priestess
by Valasania the Pale
Summary: The Legion has returned to Azeroth. As her defenders regroup on the Broken Isles following the disaster of the Broken Shore, her denizens shall discover whether or not the Light has abandoned them, and how Hope may stand as a beacon among a sea of doubt.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warcraft, World of Warcraft, or really any conceptual ideas belonging to Blizzard and their franchise. I do, however, own a pair of socks and a computer I can write _about_ that franchise on, so here we are. No suing, please. **

X_0_X

 **Lythea**

"Incoming group from Azsuna!"

The call rang through the quiet halls of Netherlight Temple. In an instant, several priests began marching briskly towards the series of portals held open to key points on the Broken Isles. Lythea Spiritlance, a former inductee into the sisterhood of Elune in Darnassus, watched the new activity with tense wariness.

As one of the new acolytes assigned by the sisterhood to the newly formed order of priests in Netherlight Temple, the elders often took it upon themselves to give her and the other acolytes many tasks hardly qualifying as anything more than grunt work.

One of the portals flared, and a tall, misshapen figure appeared in front of it. Lythea blinked away the glare, and instinctively straightened in respect as she discerned the tall, robed figure of the temple's High Priestess, Ellessa.

The draenei was incredibly pale – comparable to some of the ancient highborn nobility of Lythea's own people – with black, inky hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her hooves, peculiar to few races on Azeroth, were hidden by the long skirt of her robes. Her stomach and much of her torso was bared by her outfit, as the silver material angled upwards to cover her breasts and circle her neck, but little else.

Compared to the heavily attired priesthood arrayed around her, she looked like a simple medicine woman, clad in rudimentary robes that seemed more at home on an erotic dancer than one of the most exalted priests of the order.

That is, until one noticed the magnificent staff she bore across her back. With the headpiece molded into the shape of a Naaru, the staff glowed with an inner light to rival the great beings themselves. T'uure, Beacon of the Naaru, was the high priestess' to bear, and marked her as the undisputed leader of their order.

She carried the limp form of a female night elf in her arms. Dark bloodstains showed on her armor, which was torn and slashed to pieces. The elf's skin was darker than most of her kin's, and was crisscrossed by the distinctive tattoos of a demon hunter.

A blood elf appeared from the portal behind the high priestess, attired similarly to the priestess' charge. She held a massive, intimidating scythe, and kept her burning gaze pinned on the limp elf. A few priests moved to intercept her.

"Do not worry yourselves, Allari is here by my permission," the high priestess said. Her rich voice was tinged by the distinctive lilt of her race's accent.

"And my insistence," the demon hunter added flatly. Lythea took note of several injuries scattered across her body. The other priests made no move to help her.

Ellesa brought the night elf over to one of the many beds set up next to the sanctuary of light, and began to minister to her. The draenei's hands glowed as she channeled the power of the light, healing the most crippling wounds she found and spreading to seal the minor cuts and vanish bruising.

The night elf might have taken an hour of hard work for any other priest, but she looked as if one resting now under the priestess' hand. T'uure twinkled merrily as she took it in hand to conduct a final check for injuries.

"You should have let me kill her, priest," said Allari dispassionately. Her hands tapped against her armor, agitated.

"If I had let you kill her, Azeroth would have lost one more defender," Ellesa replied.

"One less traitor in the world is one less enemy at our backs," the demon hunter shot back.

The high priestess was busily making her patient comfortable. Her pale fingers nimbly removed pieces of leather armor, baring the night elf's dark purple skin to the open air and showing the full extent of tattooing across her chest. Lythea averted her eyes, blushing lightly, as the high priestess removed her blood-caked breast band.

To her relief, she saw the majority of the priesthood doing the same, although a few were either jaded to such sights and felt no need to concern themselves over modesty, or merely enjoyed the chance for a peek.

While the light did not eschew romantic attachment, being a priest was somewhat stifling. Lythea didn't grudge the onlookers, although she did feel a light amount of disdain that she immediately smothered.

Negative feelings to her comrades might serve to harm them all in the long run. Her instructors had beaten that, as well as several other mantras, into her head. In the face of the ongoing invasion, even she, with her relatively short lifetime compared to many of her long-lived race, could appreciate it.

Soft robes covered the night elf's body now. Lythea pitied the acolyte who would have to wash the robe later; the elf's body was filthy with mud and sweat and blood. The priestess' healing would have disinfected any wounds, but that didn't alieve the need for a thorough washing after a battle.

"Allari," the high priestess said, finally looking the blood elf in the face, "She was our ally once. There should always be the opportunity to repent for one's mistakes."

This appeared to frustrate the demon hunter. "And when she turns on us again? What will your second chances give us?"

"A second chance is only deserved when one truly repents. If she is staunch in her new allegiance, then she shall be yours to do as your wish with," the priestess clarified. Lythea wished she could achieve the serenity that smoothed her words.

Ellesa walked with grace that few priests could equal. Never once had Lythea seen the draenei scowl or raise her voice in anger; there was always an air of calmness. Of total and complete benevolence that made her just as much a beacon of the light as the artifact she carried in her hands.

"Cyana is power-hungry. Now that she's had a taste of the Legion's power, she won't turn back," Allari said flatly. Her pessimism struck like a sledgehammer.

"Perhaps."

The blood elf growled, finally reaching the end of her patience. "How can you risk your order with this? She deserves death for her actions!"

"Because," Elessa said, placing her hand on the blood elf's shoulders, carefully avoided the shoulder plates to grip where her hands met creamy flesh, "All demon hunters have had to suffer hardship and temptation at some point or another. You are defined by your ability to resist, and must eventually fail and succumb. This is not fault, my friend, but inevitable."

Allari looked deeply uncomfortable with the priestess' hands touching her. Her body was taught, like a drawn bowstring.

"The Light forgives us for our faults. I have cleansed your friend of the taint that drove her to her decision. If she wishes to repent, now that she is free of her compulsion, then it is her right."

The Souleater's lip curled, "She is a traitor."

Ellesa smiled. "Did you not betray your people by accepting the fel? Did not your brethren? Demon hunters must betray everything they value and care for to achieve their goals. Why is Cyana different?"

The elf stepped back as if slapped. The priestess' words were soft and compassionate, but they cut as deeply as any blade. Her face closed off, becoming as unreadable as stone. "I will send one of my compatriots to stand guard over her. I am needed in Faronaar."

"That is unneeded, my lady," one of the zealots said, walking over from the small group of observers. He was followed by a tall, lanky troll garbed in a dark robe. "We are fully capable of restraining her, should she refuse repentance."

The demon hunter sniffed, and began walking towards the Azsuna portal with quick strides. Coolness was reflected in the faces of the snubbed priests.

"Allari," the high priestess called. She stopped near the portal. Evidently, Lythea guessed, her respect for the priestess ran deep enough that she would listen despite her disagreement.

"Call on me should you need my aid," Ellesa told her.

The blood elf nodded once, sharply, and left.

The high priestess stared after her, her smooth features unreadable but holding some emotion Lythea was incapable of identifying.

She jumped as a cool hand touched her shoulder. She whirled around to face one of the elder priests, who looked at her with unsuccessfully concealed irritation. "Acolyte, your task is not yet finished, and we require those linens on the upper floors immediately," they said.

Lythea guiltily looked down at the neat basket of bed linens in her arms. She had been distracted by the high priestess' return, but that was no excuse for shirking her duties.

The priest's expression softened. How they could always seem to do that, when her own emotions seemed to her to run as rampant as a drunken nightsaber, escaped her. "You will not receive punishment for your inattention. Your task was not urgent," the priest said, smiling, "And observing Priestess Ellesa is a more effective tutor than any lesson we might devise for you."

Lythea kept her head ducked in gratitude, murmuring her thanks. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of her fellow acolytes, Jayne, watching her with amusement. She was so timid!

"The lesson, however, is over. Go finish your task, acolyte," The priest ordered her, already moving away.

She obeyed, scurrying towards the staircase leading to the upper floors, all the while cursing her impotent efforts to adopt the grace her peers could emulate so easily.

X_0_X

Lythea later found herself in the Sanctum of Light, kneeling below the brilliant Naaru Saa'ra.

The being, composed of pure light, coalesced into physical form, was silent, as she often was. Her tenure as one of the dreaded void gods had left its mark on her. Deep introspection had become her defense against the reality of her former state, even as she helped the conclave with its efforts to fight back the Legion.

The night elf found it to be one of the naaru's more humanizing traits. Even the holiest, most powerful being in the temple had to close itself off for reflection, just as she had since childhood in obeisance to Elune.

She, like many of her race, did not channel the Light in the traditional sense. Their power came from a deeply fostered connection to the goddess of the moon. Elune's light was more apt to heal and soothe pains, rather than sear them away, but could erupt in fury to cleanse corruption when it was needed. The high priestess Tyrande Whisperwind had used her connection to her goddess in the – already near legendary – defense of the Temple of Elune from Ysera, exploiting Elune's supremacy over the Nightmare's power to bring down the fallen aspect.

Lythea had met the high priestess many times since her induction to the order. She had been one of her early tutors in Darnassus; instructing the new acolytes to perform their duties with grace and dignity. Lythea admired her passion – so unusual for experienced priests – for her people and her husband. It was, like Saa'ra's meditations, something the silver-haired Kaldorei could relate to.

The Light pulsed in and out of her vision as she stared deep into the basin of cleansing flame below Saa'ra. She embraced its influence, feeling immense relief as it raced through her blood, purifying her – if only for a moment – of her fears, doubts, and self-recriminations. She was lain bare before the light, and she relaxed as its warm acceptance settled around her like a toasty blanket on a cold, damp day above the cloud line in her home city.

The sound of hooves on stone echoed behind her.

"Achal hecta, Saa'ra, acolyte."

Lythea glanced over her shoulder and did a double take. Still in her revealing robes, the high priestess Ellesa had knelt just beside her. Her beautiful face was set in an expression of deepest serenity as she paid homage to the light and the Naaru above her.

 _A good day to you as well, Ellesa._

The naaru's high, sweet voice flowed like spring water through both of their minds, sounding for all the world like the sound of tinkling bells transformed into speech.

The room fell back into silence. Lythea found herself unable to drop into the cathartic trance as she had been able to before, though. Simply being near the high priestess made her tremble in abject terror, although she knew not what of. She held no doubt that the draenei would never harm her – unless she began working against Azeroth, at least – but she captivated her with the supreme confidence she held herself with; confidence she had never been able to properly emulate.

She whimpered quietly as she felt the draenei's warm, smooth hand touch her shoulder. If she had cradled a newly birthed starling, her touch could not have been more gentle. Against her will, Lythea felt herself lean into the comforting touch, taking strength from the aura of comforting energy that emanated from that hand – a trait bestowed to the priestess by T'uure to augment her healing abilities and enable her to more easily soothe any distress.

"Why do you fear me so, young one?" asked the priestess, her voice heartbreakingly compassionate.

Lythea struggled to find the words to convey her feelings. "I…I do not know, high priestess," she admitted shyly, ducking her head away from the smile the draenei directed towards her.

"Anchorite Toros told me that you had watched Illidari Nightglaive's arrival to our temple," she confided to the night elf. She cupped her pale chin, tilting Lythea's face up so that she had to look deep into the luminescent blue eyes of the priestess. Lythea swallowed heavily, her throat suddenly impossibly dry as she drowned within the fathomless gaze.

"Y-yes, high priestess."

"Does it perturb you, that one of your kin lies fel-touched within our temple?"

The draenei, Lythea noted absently, held a particular talent for picking out particularly sensitive subjects. As she had noted the parallels between Cyana's betrayal and the Illidari's betrayal of their races to Allari, she had struck at one of Lythea's current sources of extreme discomfort.

She feared Cyana Nightglaive. From birth, she had been raised to worship the goddess Elune and all that she stood for, and had never met another Kaldorei elf to act differently. She of course knew about rogue elements like Fandral Staghelm and his cadre of traitorous druids during the Cataclysm, as well as the Highborn nobles who originally betrayed their race to the legion, but Cyana was a known figure.

Lythea was young, by night elven standards. Less than a century had passed since her birth on a moonlight night in Ashenvale decades prior, but that was more than enough time for her to have grown and gotten to know her community before she joined the priestesses of Elune.

Cyana Nightglaive had lived in Lythea's home village of Astranaar as a sentinel. Though they had never interacted regularly, she was a common fixture in Lythea's memories, masterfully wielding her glaives when Ashenvale's rampant wildlife began to encroach into the town's confines.

She had disappeared with three other sentinels just a year prior to Lythea's departure to Darnassus. Whispers of Legion influence had reached the town from Demon Fall Canyon. They had assumed them all dead, but the young night elf was proven wrong.

Cyana Nightglaive had joined the Illidari – betrayed her position as a sentinel and defender of the Kaldorei people – and it had tainted her in ways unimaginable to Lythea. She could not fathom why the high priestess had chosen to grant the demon hunter a second chance at life instead of sending her back into the void.

"Y-yes, high priestess," Lythea murmured, dropping her gaze to stare at the draenei's lips.

"She will be an interesting test of character. Shall she accept my offer of clemency and fight for Azeroth once more, or is her soul lost to the Legion?" The high priestess released Lythea's chin, rising to stand at her full and impressive height. "I cannot answer until she awakens, but know this, acolyte," The priestess' gaze locked with Lythea's, who had started with her sudden movement.

"Those who may offer a second chance create the potential for a new beginning from annihilation. It is what separates us from the Legion," The priestess said staunchly.

Lythea could only feel doubt. What good were second chances when they dealt with the implacable Legion?

Ellesa smiled at her, kind and warm, but somehow chilling in a way Lythea could not place, "Do not mistake me. Should Cyana prove staunch, I will not hesitate to deliver unto her a swift death. The Light is forgiving, but cannot reach those who turn away from it."

 _A'dal journeys to Azeroth, does he not Ellesa?_

Saa'ra had remained silent, but her spirit-raiding chime caressed their thoughts.

The high priestess faced the Naaru, losing the chilling edge she had momentarily possessed. "He and several of his other kin from Outland. The Legion is almost entirely extinguished on that world; it is safe enough there that he is comfortable bringing himself, Ve'ru, Xi'ri, and Ki'ru to the Broken Isles to direct the offensives in Faronaar, the Isle of the Watchers, and Suramar. A'dal himself will be present to advise the Council of Azeroth when we assemble once again."

 _It has been many millennia since I have last spoken with them. My darkening closed many doors._

If a Naaru could be said to be morose, Saa'ra had suddenly taken a downturn. Even her light, normally radiant and penetrating, dimmed under the pressure of her inner turmoil.

Ellesa raised her hands towards the Naaru in a supplicating manner. Above her palms, two spheres of light – too bright to look at directly – ignited into existence as T'uure began to glow with its own light from the high priestess' back.

"Do not grieve, Saa'ra," she said consolingly, the light in her hands streaming out to be absorbed into the Naaru. "You are reborn of the light, that is all that matters."

 _I am diminished. I fear even the light may be insufficient to restore to me a sense of abiding peace._

"I am with you, Saa'ra; even should the light fade from our world forever and the void encroach upon us all, we shall fight to restore order to chaos and heal the hurts of the universe," the draenei promised.

"I will help you too," Lythea blurted, her heart aching for the aggrieved Naaru. Realizing what she had said after a moment though, she burst into a furious blush and began stammering. "I-if you'll have me, at least. I am j-just an acolyte and probably not very-"

 _You hearten me. I thank you, Ellesa, Lythea. The darkness, I fear, is never far from my thoughts, but you continue to remind me of the virtue of the Light – and more importantly – its followers._

Lythea silenced herself by supreme force of will, her fair, pink-toned face stained with a darkening purple blush. She felt undeserving of the powerful Naaru's praise.

A tinkling sound, reminiscent of hailstones impacting against a pane of glass or a bell in a rainstorm, echoed through her mind, and Lythea realized that Saa'ra was laughing.

 _Acolyte or no, you are pure of heart, Lythea Spiritlance. Sincerity is a greater virtue than power, and is by great magnitude more impactful in the direst of times. You have my deepest gratitude for your words._

Lythea bowed to the Naaru, humbled by her words. "Thank you," she managed, without stuttering.

Saa'ra brightened, the orbiting fragments of light which made up her body shivering with delight.

 _Of course. Walk with the Light, Lythea._

"Indeed, and may you walk with the light as well, Saa'ra," Ellesa chimed in from where she had observed their conversation in silence.

Her gaze briefly unfocused – Saa'ra was certainly projecting words to her alone – before she nodded respectfully to the Naaru.

"Good day," she said.

 _Good day, Ellesa._

The high priestess looked at Lythea, and gestured for her to follow her outside of the sanctum of light. Briefly shooting a glance at the silent Naaru, the night elf quickly darted after the priestess, falling into stride with the long-legged draenei.

Lythea took a moment to thank Elune for the naturally long legs gifted to her people; were she a human she would have to run to keep up with the high priestess.

"Saa'ra is an excellent example of redemption, Lythea," mused the draenei, reminding the acolyte of her earlier discomfort regarding Cyana.

"She was irredeemable by almost any standard. Even the Naaru seldom hold out hope for their darkened comrades to return to the light, however overjoyed they are when it occurs. While all avenues of redemption are pursued, most void gods are simply exterminated to avert the rampant destruction they wreak on whatever world is unfortunate enough to house one," she continued.

"Saa'ra was an anomaly, much like Mu'ru in Quel'danas. Their corruption was total, but they were capable of turning away from the abyss towards the light once more. It is their example, among others, that reminds me of the virtue of mercy. I cannot ignore the chance to redeem a soul in need, do you understand?"

Thinking about the priestess' words, Lythea felt that she could. Saa'ra was still haunted by her tenure as a void god, but now stood as a paragon of the light once more. Why, then, couldn't Cyana?

It made her deeply uncomfortable – stories had been told to her since birth of the menace of Illidan Stormrage and the pall of dread he had cast over Outland, and the havoc he had wrecked against the legendary Wardens underneath Hyjal. Her race had had thousands of years to foster a lasting sense of loathing towards demon hunters in general.

They were the cravens; the fel-addicts; traitors to their people and the consorts of succubae and felguards.

But now they fought alongside them against the Legion.

"I understand, High priestess. I don't feel perfectly content with it, but I can understand," Lythea said quietly, deep in thought.

The draenei smiled, gripping her shoulder tightly. Lost in thoughts as she was, Lythea failed to tense at the action. "Understanding fosters empathy, which dispels uncertainty. Perhaps in time, you will reconcile your emotions, but continue to _think_ \- to try to understand why your actions are virtuous – and you shall go far, Lythea Spiritlance."

"Hey, Mon, I be in need of ya help ova' here!" came the loud voice of Zabra Hexx, one of the shadow-priests dwelling within Netherlight Temple.

Lythea jerked out of her thoughts, and made to run over to where the troll appeared to have spilt several bottles of ink onto the floor, when she remembered who she was walking with. She sent a desperate glance at the high priestess, whose eyes were alight with mirth.

A careless gesture of her pale white hand sent Lythea scurrying over to where the troll was gingerly cleaning the glass shards of a broken bottle off the ground.

"My tanks, acolyte. I be getting' tired and not payin' attention to what I'm doin'," Hexx admitted sheepishly. It was a decidedly odd look for the massive troll, who dwarfed Lythea despite her impressive height of six feet with his own towering figure.

"It is not of concern," she told him as she cast a small fire spell to burn away the ink. She would come back with towels to better scrub the area, but this way nobody would slip in the ink puddle.

"Ah, but I be takin' ya away from ya talk wit' da priestess. That be a damn shame, and ya have my apologies for it," he told her, an odd note of sincerity in his voice. She looked him full in the face, but saw that he was looking after the draenei with genuine respect.

"She be one of da best damn priests we got, dat Ellesa. I be knowin' only a little bit about her life, but if any of my experience in readin' people be worth da effort to gain, I be seein' multitudes within those eyes," Hexx said solemnly.

Lythea didn't often find herself talking with the shadow priests within the temple. They kept to themselves – separate from the majority of the conclave due to the nature of their positions. Worship of the void, and controlling its energies, was not banned by the conclave – they wouldn't be there otherwise – but had been mercilessly purged from many of their orders prior to the invasion, when they were separate, disparate factions of light-worshippers.

As a result, upon her arrival within the temple, Lythea had been thrust into close contact with shadow priests unprepared to deal with them and expecting a bunch of savage, untrustworthy cultists.

They had proven her wrong. While they had darker edges to them, and constantly vied with their darker natures – two shadow priests had succumbed to the madness of the void since the conclave's founding, and the accursed knife that had led the last one to murder an elder priest was now sealed away until a competent shadow priest could wield it safely – they were just as capable of respect and empathy as their lighter counterparts.

Case in point; Lythea had never expected to hear such profound words from a void-worshipper, much less a troll of all races. Even through the thick accent the entire race wielded like a blunt hammer, she felt his words wouldn't be out of place within a scholar's congregation in Darnassus.

"It's alright. Tasks like these give me time to think," Lythea told the troll, neatly picking up a few of the smaller glass shards his large, three-fingered hands couldn't grasp.

He grinned at her; "Ah, dat be good. Always be tinkin' about ya lessons. Ya be getting' wiser for it, and da loa be knowin' we be in need of wise priests," he said cheerfully.

Without intention, she smiled at the troll, liking his frankness. Unlike the quiet grace Ellesa carried herself with, which intimidated the pale Kaldorei, Zabra just felt like a friend. For a superior, that made him surprisingly easy to connect with, despite her never having really spoken to him at length before.

She walked over to a nearby waste bin and neatly dropped the glass shards inside. Hexx clasped her shoulder within his massive hand, which was so disproportionate to her own body that it fair disappeared beneath it, and grinned toothily around his tusks. It was rather intimidating, despite the friendly vibe he exuded – calling to mind midnight orgies of blood sacrifice and debauchery and prowling war-bands stalking through the jungles his race preferred as a home.

"Ya seem ta be a good little priest, acolyte. I always be lookin' for new friends ta talk wit', but dat be a little tough when I don't be knowin' ya name," he chuckled heartily.

"I am Lythea Spiritlance, acolyte of the Conclave of the Light, junior priestess of Elune, and former resident of Astranaar within the forests of Ashenvale," she introduced herself formally.

"Well, Lythea," he said, his accent lending an interesting lilt to her name, "I be Zabra Hexx, of da Darkspear Tribe and da Conclave of da Light. I used ta live in da Scarlet Monastery before those lunatic crusada's took it over, but now I just be goin' where I'm needed."

Lythea, finally swayed by his cordiality, smiled at him.

"It's good to meet you, Zabra."

X_0_X

 **Hello! It has been quite a while. I'm sorry if some of you are disappointed by the fact that this isn't Harry Potter, or that there is a distinct lack of smut contained herein - be not worried, I may go back to Harry Potter later, but right now it just isn't happening. The smut, as well, will be happening, it just didn't fit into the beginning of the story, since I intend to actually put an effort into plot and development of character.**

 **As you've probably deduced, this is going to occur in Legion content. I intend to follow a similar format to the 'Lion of Azeroth' series, by the admirable Galaxywolf, who I've drawn inspiration to write for WoW from.**

 **For reference, the robes Ellesa is wearing is cut similarly to the ingame Slavebreaker Robes given as a quest reward to the burgeoning priest at the beginning of Warlords of Draenor. I use the transmog for my own priest, who inspired the character :D**

 **Farewell, dear readers, and have a merry bout of introspection and speculation about the future of this story,**

 **-Valasania the Pale**


	2. Chapter Two

**Zinia**

For some, fighting was a calling. A lust that sparked a fire within the blood that burned hotter than love, sex, or ambition. A thrill that ached within one's bones, gripping them with anxious palsy when that person found themselves anywhere but on the battlefield, pitting themselves against fate and skill and passion and luck.

For Zinia, fighting was not a calling, but an exceptionally distasteful activity that detracted from her time refining new spells and exploring new avenues of magic. Its products were death and the ruination of land and creation and lore.

She was one of the most powerful mages Azeroth had to offer – not yet on the level of Khadgar or Jaina Proudmoore, but approaching their skill. Her power did not translate into fighting ability though; her greatest talent was her deep, instinctual knowledge of her craft.

How does one take the measure of a flame? How it curls and flickers like a newborn exploring the world with blind, fragile fingers? What flame is the most vibrant – readiest to stand for itself and consume all around it in a towering inferno – the most willful?

Her life was dedicated to the expansion and study of fire magic. Since her apprenticeship, she had crooned as a mother to a babe to her darling embers, feeding them the heat of her limbs and the spark of her soul and embracing the essence of flame understood only by the very elements themselves.

When she had accepted the post of Archmage of the newly reformed Tirisgarde, Zinia had known she would be thrown into combat frequently. She was powerful and destructive, both of which were traits vital in the fight against the Legion as they slogged their way out of their portals and into Azeroth.

She did not regret it. Her research would be for nothing if she was killed by the Legion. What she hated was the responsibility she now held over so many lives. It was never an ambition of hers; to lead.

But she _had_ accepted, however reluctantly, to head the new order, and she was now responsible for each and every mage working within the Tirisgarde from Dalaran.

Which included the belligerent mage Jaina Proudmoore, who had abdicated her position in the Council of Six in Dalaran. Her rage was not so great that she would ignore the invasion to spite the Council, and she had sought to join Zinia's new order nearly as soon as it was reborn.

Which caused problems. Zinia was a blood elf, which apparently marked her as hostile towards the disgraced Archmage.

And if Jaina continued her path, that would soon be true, however much it would grieve Zinia to have to expel her.

The Sin'dorei watched from her position in the shadows as Proudmoore argued furiously with several other magi originating from the horde. What had begun as a light jab had quickly escalated; the blood elf would interfere when she had seen enough. She was patient.

Felo'Melorn, the Flamestrike, crackled quietly with energy at her hip. The iridescent blade flickered in time with her heartbeat; the result of her constantly injecting her magic through the blade. Flames licked at her fingers with affectionate warmth, dim enough to maintain her silent observation.

"-Mage bitch thinking that we are responsible for the mistakes of our predecessors. It was not I who ordered Theramore destroyed, nor the retreat from the Broken Shore called!" snarled one of Jaina's targets; a blood elf originating from eastern Quel'Thalas that Zinia had known for over two centuries.

"Nor," growled a Forsaken mage – Zinia had never met him before in her life – "was it my fault. You have a problem with the Horde's actions? Take it to the fucking warchief. Sylvanas would _love_ to hear you out, I'm sure."

The disgraced Archmage's eyes had grown cold. They seldom warmed from their icy blue these days, which was a shame. Zinia had taken her first lover a long time ago – before the fall of her homeland. He had died during the destruction of Quel'danas, while she had escaped with her kin.

She had since taken other partners – short affairs meaning little other than to sate her body's occasional cravings – and since meeting her, the blood elf had admired the cruel intelligence that lurked behind the angry eyes of Jaina Proudmoore.

It was not to be, though, so long as those eyes could look at her with such hate, which she considered distinctly disappointing.

Zinia had missed whatever reply the Archmage had made. Her eyes snapped back to attention the instant her mages snarled in unison and raised their hands towards Proudmoore, each with a spell of incredible power primed and ready to annihilate the belligerent human.

She was already moving, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Kalecgos also moving in the direction of his former romantic interest with concerned wariness reflected all over his face.

Jaina was faster. Years of brutal training and combat had honed her reflexes to a fine point – Zinia would find herself hard-pressed to match her in combat, despite outranking the Archmage in brute strength.

A frostbolt the size of a fist shot away from her upraised palm. It took the blood elf – Mellia – between her shoulder and breast, throwing her to the ground where she began to shiver. The other mages had completed their casts, and, enraged by their comrade's defeat, threw their attacks towards the Archmage.

Jaina blinked forward, behind another opponent, and silenced her with a frozen hand across her mouth, freezing it shut and immediately knocking her unconscious with the deadly chill.

Zinia blinked forward herself, drawing Felo'Melorn and slashing Jaina's staff – a weapon she had used since before the exodus of Lordaeron – into two neat pieces of kindling.

The human immediately designated her as the greatest threat and unleashed a flurry of frost spells, forcing Zinia on the defensive as she sent continuous waves of firebolts to intercept each spell with precision she had worked and bled for since childhood.

Her blood sang as she fell into the hot, molten haze of her magic. Battle could not come close to the incredible thrill she felt whenever she immersed herself in the essence of her magic, transformed into fire.

Her eyes tracked each spell, obliterating each arctic blast before it could travel more than a few inches. Her limbs trembled with excitement, and her cheeks flushed. Jaina could outpace her over time; she knew. The Archmage was younger than her by several centuries but possessed precision she would never attain without centuries more effort. She was a prodigy.

The blood elf shifted her stance, marveling at how _good_ it felt as her nerves sang in pain and arousal as the arcane energy she channeled through her body raced through every cell of her body. Her vision narrowed to the duel. Sparks danced in her eyes as she and Felo'Melorn blended together into one seamless identity as they fell into the thrill of the fight.

Her soft, delicately wrought hand drew Felo'Melorn from its sheath, and she began to slash spells out of the air. She enjoyed the mental exercise it took to intercept the bolts of magic with her own, but the blade called out to her with a siren's song of need so deep she could drown in it. It thirsted for magic; to drink of her essence and embrace her very being as they fought in tandem. It craved the taste and feel of Jaina's magic; lusting after her with a hunger only matched by the boundless, insatiable _need_ born in the womb of a wildfire.

If Felo'Melorn were given the chance, it would consume the frost mage utterly, gorging itself on her essence. Zinia had melded with the sword – it no longer desired to destroy her to sate itself, but instead they acted as one force.

It was too bad the Flamestrike was a sword rather than an elf, Zinia mused with some regret. She and it were matched in so many ways that the blood elf could no longer imagine being parted from the artifact.

From her fingertips to her chest, she felt a flush of warmth as Felo'Melorn acknowledged her thoughts. The heat nearly broke her concentration as she fought not to sigh in pleasure.

Jaina's face was drawn into an angry snarl. There was a light pink just across the tops of her high, regal cheekbones. Besides the fierce, arcane glow emanating from her eyes, it was the only sign of concentration Zinia could detect. Her barrage of magic intensified.

She had to withhold a wanton moan as her body hit a fever pitch as she became more and more saturated with energy. She fairly vibrated with it; her eyes were alight with ethereal flame and her hair – the color of the sunset's molten gold – whipped around in delicate tendrils as crackling red arcane energy twined itself with the strands. It was time to end this.

She parried two more frostbolts. In the split second between the next cast, she drew on the immense energies within her and channeled them into Felo'Melorn. The sword purred in her grip, acknowledging her desire. Fire was born, erupting into a massive jet of flame with a ear-shattering roar accompanied by Zinia's breathless cry of ecstasy. The Archmage was immediately thrown on the defensive.

Zinia, still lost in the grip of her own magic, continued her channeling with the single-minded determination of an addict. A veritable inferno engulfed the human as Jaina desperately conjured water elementals to combat the roaring flames while also shielding against the heat with wave after wave of ice.

It was not to last forever. Zinia's relentless attack, compounding the loss of her arcane focus at the beginning of their duel, soon overwhelmed Jaina and as she fell to her knees with her elementals evaporating around her, Zinia strode forward, body alight was ecstatic pleasure, and slashed through the last wall of ice the Archmage had built around her.

Felo'Melorn's influence licked throughout her body; saturated as she was by its magic. Zinia shuddered as she felt it caressing her like a lover. Down her pulse. Along her spine. At the apex of her thighs.

Focus.

She motioned one of her mages forward. They had, thankfully, prepared for the eventual ending of the duel and had brought a pair of arcane shackles.

Zinia let her gaze drift along the carnage of their impromptu arena. Mellia was bleeding out on the ground – thankfully, the wound had quickly frozen over from the power of the frostbolt, so she was in little danger of immediate death – and the troll Jaina had suffocated was eerily still. The walls were scorched and frozen in several places. Arcane tomes sitting on tables were damaged; probably beyond repair.

Her eyes met Jaina's weary, defiant orbs.

"Jaina Proudmoore, as the leader of the Tirisgarde, I hereby excommunicate you from our order as a result of your actions against us," She said formally, fighting the urge to leave this to a subordinate and seclude herself with Felo'Melorn for several hours.

"Because of your efforts on behalf of Azeroth prior to now, you shall be remanded to Azerothian leadership to be sentenced to justice," she finished, motioning the mage with the shackles forward.

The night elf – a tall, handsome specimen with midnight blue locks and molten silver eyes narrowed in disgust – gripped Jaina's wrists with one hand and clapped the shackles around them. The thin, pale arms of the human looked positively diminutive compared to the elf's.

Jaina slumped as she felt the magical high – each mage felt it in some form or another – dissipate and the reality of her situation set in.

Zinia felt little regret. The Archmage had not initiated the encounter, which worked in her favor, but the human had been spoiling for a fight. Her actions were not one of a reluctant victim, but rather a bellicose assailant who had merely failed to lose her patience first.

While she could appreciate the Archmage's initiative – she herself would have reacted similarly, if less brutally – Jaina had obviously been waiting for an excuse to unleash on the Horde. That her actions had resulted in one of Zinia's mages being critically injured and another likely dead was a matter of greater import. They could afford to tolerate zero dissent while the Legion sought their destruction.

She would brook no arguments. Her work to weld Alliance and Horde into one seamless whole had progressed better than she could have dreamed since her rise to Archmage. Proudmoore's belligerence might not have shattered that effort – even now her mages showed nothing but distaste for the human's actions no matter their prior affiliations – but that would change were Zinia to be light in sentencing.

Better to excise the corruption immediately than allow it to grow. It was a lesson she knew that, even now, the Cenarion Circle and its druids were learning as they desperately fought the forces of the Emerald Nightmare in Val'Sharah. The entire area had become a virtual battleground, with the Dreamgrove and Temple of Elune turning into two of the only bastions of Azerothian power left standing.

At the errant thought, Felo'Melorn whispered to her. Begged her to take a contingent of mages to the horror-stricken area to wreak destruction upon their enemies. To show the dark of the Nightmare the searing wrath of the living flame.

 _'Soon, Beloved, soon,'_ she crooned back, her hand affectionately caressing the blade now returned to her hip. It shivered in delight.

As Jaina was lifted to her feet and marched off to the detainment area in anticipation of the next council, Zinia observed Kalecgos watching the human with acute disappointment. She felt a brief stab of empathy for the aspect. His could not be an easy longing to bear, given to such a shrew as it was.

"Mages, back to work. I want this room tidied, the books examined for any salvageable material, and for the sake of the blessed Light get those two looked at straight away!" she barked at the waiting crowd. They scrambled to fulfill her orders. Mellia and Ne'Tera – the troll – were quickly lifted onto stretchers and brought to the infirmary. Ne'Tera was likely already dead; Zinia hadn't seen her breathe in the last three minutes, but Mellia had an excellent chance for recovery.

If her own healers couldn't handle it, she would transfer her temporarily to Netherlight Temple. She had strong bonds with the High Priestess, and knew she would happily give her friend the medical aid she needed.

Felo'Melorn hummed as she thought about the draenei priestess. Theirs was an interesting relationship, if nothing else, and one the sword definitely approved of.

Not to mention Ellesa was a fair hand with holy fire. It was not the same as the arcane monstrosities Zinia was capable of bringing to bear at her beck and call, but any flame was enough to entice her and her sword to attention.

Blinking her eyes, Zinia realized that she was no longer needed. Her mages were already moving back into their normal routines and the room was being tended to. Her body throbbed and Felo'Melorn's influence intensified as her thoughts drifted to her dark, silenced room, where she could sit in privacy amidst the sea of candles she had filled her room with.

As the blush on her refined features reformed to the extent it had reached during the duel, she walked with increasing speed to her room, her breath beginning to come in pants as her beloved sword continued to feed her hungry body with ecstatic pleasure.

She did not leave her room until the dawn.

X_0_X

 **Hello again! I hope you've enjoyed the second chapter to The High Priestess. Right now, I have a lot of free time due to the holiday break, so I will probably continue a semi-regular posting schedule while my inspiration lasts.**

 **One theme I hope to explore during this story is the bond between the various Artifacts and their wielders, as you can see here. I can't possibly imagine these weapons - ancient, storied artifacts all - would simply act like slightly-more-powerful whacking sticks like most weapons, so they're definitely going to have a lot of detail dedicated to them. They're so fascinating!**

 **With that, I'll leave you to find more material - or, if this is the future, read on. If you liked this, or have questions, comments, or advice, leave a review below. I'd be happy to reply.**

 **Have a Merry Time,**

 **-Valasania the Pale**


	3. Chapter Three

**Lythea**

Every day, Netherlight Temple held devotions to the Light.

It was, for many in the conclave, one of the few things binding them to the lives they had left behind to take up the defense of Azeroth. Dozens had given up family and close friends – their faiths and their homes – and suffered in the dark of the night for want of those comforting presences.

It was no less than any soldier had to endure when at war, but Ellesa, seeing the disheartening effect the loss had inflicted on everybody, had ensured that they would have at least this legacy upheld.

Lythea felt comforted when the priestess speaking for the Sisters of Elune stepped up to take her turn in honoring their goddess. Each race with their own peculiar worshipping habits were given a chance each morning. She had never known much about how others worshipped the Light before arriving at Netherlight Temple, but she could now relate several tomes-worth of knowledge for every one of them.

Not for the first time, she admired the subtle manipulation within the High Priestesses actions. She had breached the boundaries between each race by founding the Conclave, and was now also blending customs and exposing them all to new ideas and culture.

Lythea glanced at the draenei, whose eyes were shut in an expression of utter tranquility. Her body was bereft of the revealing robes she had worn to Faronaar, and was instead clad in a long, flowing robe of purest white; magnificent for its simplicity and purity. T'uure shimmered in her hand, an uplifting chime occasionally sounding from the crystalline structure.

As if she could sense Lythea's gaze, Ellesa's eyes opened, revealing her haunting azure irises nearly hidden by the aura her and Lythea's races shared. They locked with hers, and Lythea sucked in a breath as her heart began beating irregularly.

The High Priestess had continued to have that effect on her. Since their unexpected meeting with Saa'ra, Lythea had found her lessons increasingly observed by the priestess, who would dole out advice and wisdom where she found it needed.

More often though, she would simply watch Lythea with her open – but nonetheless unreadable – gaze, seemingly peering into her soul and judging her character. It inspired the night elf to work harder and strive to be worthy of that attention. Not even her first teacher Tyrande Whisperwind had driven her to such devotion to her role in life.

It was exhilarating; she had never felt so attuned to the Light, which seemed to echo throughout every one of her daily tasks.

Beside her, kneeling on the temporary pew set up for the benefit of the onlookers, Zabra Hexx, now one of Lythea's close friends, sighed in abject peace. His expression, normally upturned in a grin or lined with a timeless weariness Lythea could not fathom, was loosened as he lost himself in the tranquil atmosphere created by the various hymns and ritual chants.

A few rows away, Jayne Rivervine, her fellow acolyte from the Temple of Elune in Darnassus, bowed her head similarly. They had talked less of late – Lythea's friend had not the benefit of her motivation, and her rapid improvement in ability had created a minor rift between them.

Lythea wanted desperately to mend it before they were assigned a greater role in the ongoing fighting around the Broken Isles and Azeroth at large.

It was inevitable that they were; the Legion had been held back, but every day more and more defenders perished under the onslaught, and though they were far from spent, with new recruits arriving by the day, the temple could not afford to keep experienced priests from the frontlines forever.

Even lacking battlefield experience as they were, Jayne and Lythea both had arrived perfectly capable of fulfilling their roles as priestesses were they forced to. They would not have left Darnassus if their training had not been that complete; their time at Netherlight was merely the last test of their abilities – a remnant of the old days when priests were placed into subservient roles to try their patience and tolerance – and it was soon approaching an end.

Zabra sighed next to her, interrupting her inner musings. "Do ya feel it, Lythea?"

His accent mangled her name, a peculiarity she found endearing and exotic about him. The troll – someone whose race she had never expected to have anything but hostile intentions for – reminded her of an older uncle; a family member and good friend she could think of with fondness and enjoy spending time with.

"Feel what, Zabra?" she asked, closing her eyes and immersing herself in the rippling threads of light she felt within her.

"Dis. All of dis," he gestured at the kneeling conclave all around. "Dis be da powa' of da Light. It be bringin' all da races of Azeroth an' beyond togeda' for a common purpose. It be a beautiful ting ta witness, don'cha tink?"

She smiled at him; genuinely happy to see him so moved. "It is. I don't think any of this could have happened anywhere else – or under anyone else. The High Priestess is truly an amazing leader, to have made it possible for us to all worship together peacefully," she said.

"Mmm," he grunted, his usual grin suddenly appearing on his face, "Yeah, I be agreein' wit'cha there. Ellesa be a good leada', and a smooth talka' at dat. Do ya tink she be havin' dat silver tongue of hers all da time?"

Lythea flushed deep scarlet, hiding her face in her hands at the unexpected innuendo. Zabra had easily detected the infatuation she had developed for the draenei the day he had met her. Also noticing her occasional bouts of shyness, he had taken it upon himself to bombard her with all of the creative innuendo she could manage without collapsing into a puddle of embarrassment.

"Nah, now dat I be tinkin' about it, she can't be talkin' dat smooth all da time. I bet she be castin' off all dat elegance when she needs to and just getting' nice an' raunchy when it be suitin' her, eh little night elf?" he whispered in her ear, just quiet enough that the priests around them remained ignorant of his scandalous speech.

Lythea buried her face even further into her hands, now praying to the Light that she could sink into a hole and hide the dark red on her cheeks from the all-too-knowing eyes that watched her with grand amusement.

Against her better judgement, she looked back up at the draenei, and felt her embarrassment – impossibly – deepen.

Ellesa watched both her and Zabra, easily keeping up with the devotions as they continued on ignorant of the interaction. For once breaking the cool, untouchable demeanor, she rolled her eyes at Zabra, who had sarcastically blown her a kiss, and gazed back at Lythea.

Her heart skipped a beat as the High Priestess winked at her, somehow imbuing the action with a distinctly feline mischievousness. While the night elf knew that she could not have possibly overheard their conversation – quiet as it was – she couldn't help but shake the feeling that that action had represented so much more than teasing.

Thoughts and half-baked fantasies subdued her higher brain functions as she entirely lost the thread of the devotions. Before she knew it, the event was over and the group of priests was splintering as they all went off to fulfill whatever tasks they had to perform that day, leaving behind one flushed and partially aroused Kaldorei, a smug troll, and the High Priestess herself, who had descended from the upraised platform to speak with them.

"Good morning Lythea, Zabra. How does the day treat you?" the draenei asked them, ignoring the extreme discomfort plaguing the acolyte.

"Well enough, High Priestess," Zabra replied, his grin showing between his tusks.

"I'm fine," Lythea murmured; more to convince herself than in reply to the draenei.

She gasped as a cool, soothing hand cupped her cheek. Another pressed palm-first against her forehead, checking her temperature, and she began to lean into the touch.

"Are you well, Lythea? You're flushed," Ellesa asked her, betraying no indication of how her actions affected the night elf.

Lythea fought desperately not to whimper as the hands pulled away, seeming to stroke against her smooth, pale skin before they left. Her legs trembled for a moment as she shoved any thoughts away that including Ellesa and the many sinful, delightful things she could so with –

"I am well, High Priestess," She managed, stronger this time as she collected her scattered thoughts. She couldn't fall apart every time they interacted. However delightful it might be.

"Hmm, at least check in to the infirmary if you get worse. No need to catch something at this time when you can avoid it," Ellesa said.

As she muttered her agreement with her eyes downcast, Zabra interjected with his irrepressible good cheer, "So, High Priestess, aren'cha headin' to Dalaran lata' today for dat meetin'?"

The draenei nodded, allowing Lythea to relax and focus her attention on the new topic.

"Our initial efforts to secure the Isles have met with varied success. To be successful, we must coordinate our efforts and bolster those places that are being overrun. The Naaru from Outland are also set to arrive, and I must introduce them to their new allies," Ellesa said.

Zabra listened intently, his grin never fading but his eyes showing his seriousness.

"Not to mention," the priestess continued, "We must decide who to send to reinforce the druids in Val'Sharah and who will lead the assault on the Eye of Azshara to the south. The naga have been congregating in that area after their defeat in Nar'Thalas, and the Earthen Ring has been clamoring to annihilate their forces after the defeat of Neptulon two days ago."

"And den dere's dat bad business wit' Proudmoore," Zabra said darkly.

Everyone in the hall had overheard the conversation between the mages bringing their comrade to them for healing and Ellesa' subordinate Ishanah. To say that the surprise felt by them all was significant was an understatement. Whatever her hostility towards the Horde in recent years, the Archmage had been trusted to keep her anger in check while there were bigger priorities at hand.

It was a thought process strengthened by the relative neutrality she had shown during the campaign on the alternative Draenor. Evidently, the losses incurred during the Battle of the Broken Shore were enough to overcome that reticence.

"Yes," Ellesa murmured, eyes downcast. She seemed genuinely grieved by the decision she would have to play a part in, and Lythea felt a pang of empathy in her chest.

"You'll do what is right," she found herself saying. Immediately, she froze up when she realized she had spoken, and furiously combed her thoughts to find where those words had surfaced from.

That ground to a halt when the draenei smiled at her gently. It was as if a gentle wind had lovingly lifted her cognitive abilities away from her mind and left a soothing wind to flow through the vacant space.

"As long as I have others to believe in me, I have a reason to try," the draenei said, much brightened for the encouragement.

"But enough of these darker topics. There is enough of that without us bringing them up in every conversation," she continued, "I had wanted to ask you if you would accompany me to the council, Lythea. I feel that you would greatly benefit from seeing the inner workings of Azerothian politics."

She stared at the High Priestess for several seconds, before Lythea realized that the words had been spoken to her and not some other soul nearby her. Her lips opened and closed mutely, as panic engulfed her senses.

Why on earth would the High Priestess want her at the council? What could she have to offer? Her – not even risen above the status of acolyte; less than any other priest in the hall, who were all more experienced and wise than she could ever hope to be!

Ellesa waited patiently for her to recover herself, an amused smile playing on her face. Zabra seemed to be trying to memorize the various emotions playing across her face for future ribbing.

"I-" Lythea choked out, furious with herself for being so easily disarmed by the beautiful draenei, "I would be honored to accompany you, but I must ask; why me?"

"Because," Ellesa said, "I feel you have a great deal of potential within you, Lythea. Your connection with the Light grows by the day, and you will soon depart to defend Azeroth with your life. You must learn what it is like to interact with those outside of the Conclave – to know how your leadership will act and think and make decisions that will affect not only your life, but the lives of your comrades and the people you defend."

"Not to mention, I think you would appreciate the opportunity to observe the politics of the realm. It takes a true silver tongue to deal with some of these people," finished the High Priestess. There was the barest hint of greater mischief in her eyes, too distant for Lythea to be able to truly detect.

Of course, upon processing what the draenei had said, her mind once again failed her, and she stared dumbly at the draenei until finally the priestess made her excuses and left the two of them alone.

Zabra, of course, had collapsed into a paroxysm of intense, howling laughter.

X_0_X

Lythea spent the next hour trying to center herself in preparation for her departure.

She and Jayne had sequestered themselves in Lythea's room, where her friend was braiding her hair into something resembling an elegant braid. It had been several weeks since she'd last had the chance to practice her skill, so it came out less than perfect, but the feeling of her friend's fingers moving steadily through her long locks helped to relax Lythea.

"I wonder how big the council will be," Jayne admitted.

Lythea toyed with the edges of her robe. The smooth material whispered against her fingers. "Probably not so big. The Cenarion Circle is too busy; most of the other factions are tied up in their own affairs," she said absently, "It'll mostly be representatives. Nobody can afford to lose their leaders for hours at a time."

"I heard the Earthen Ring is preparing to lay siege to the Eye of Azshara," Jayne said. Lythea turned to see thinly veiled excitement in the Kaldorei's eyes.

Lythea felt a bubble of nervousness form in her stomach. That was not a look she wanted to see on her friend right now. "The Naga are creating something powerful there. The Shamans can't afford to let them perfect it; they're in the middle of the ocean. Neptulon was already beaten by Azshara's elites," she told her friend. It was immediately evident her friend understood her intent.

"I don't want to throw myself into anything, Lythea," Jayne assured her. "But we've grown up hearing about the Isles. I've always wanted to visit Azshara, but it's been forbidden. I'd rather be assigned there than Val'Sharah, at least."

It was a sentiment Lythea understood. The Nightmare had earned its name in every conceivable way.

Her friend began massaging her scalp, nimble fingers dancing between her locks. Lythea leaned into her touch; it was different than Ellesa's, which elicited a state of near-intoxication in Lythea. Her friend's touch was born from years of familiar companionship.

"Where do you want to be assigned," Jayne asked her.

 _Nowhere,_ she thought honestly. She genuinely enjoyed her time in the temple. The Broken Isles themselves were in a state of sustained combat. Whether it was against the Legion, or the Naga, or the skirmishing between Alliance and Horde forces holding a grudge for the Broken Shore, anywhere one travelled, there was some form of fighting.

Stormheim was supposedly one of the more rugged areas, second only to Highmountain. Both were described as possessing a rough beauty; so much so that the hunters of the Unseen Path had practically claimed the towering peak for their own, although several other groups had obviously claimed their own enclaves within its rocky confines.

Val'Sharah was once one of the most gorgeous examples of nature's influence on Azeroth. Malfurion Stormrage had founded the first order of druids there, under the boughs of the mighty world tree Shaladrassil. It was corrupted beyond redemption now, if reports were to be at all trusted.

Azshara was a land of ruins. The few remaining Highborne there were cursed to wander eternally, and the Naga fought bitterly to claim the area named for their queen.

Lythea's thoughts turned to the central lands of Suramar and shuddered. After her battle against the fallen aspect Ysera, Tyrande Whisperwind had returned to her homeland to ally with the Nightfallen exiles of the hidden city. They were busy assembling their armies to assault the Nightborn capital, but were thus far unsuccessful in fighting off the Grand Magistrix's forces.

None were places that sounded pleasant to be stationed in. Too much fighting; too many threats. She would spend a great deal of her time simply trying to keep her allies alive to appreciate the (mostly) untainted beauty of the land.

"Suramar, I think. It would be nice to see the High Priestess again," Lythea answered her friend. It wasn't a lie; while they had never become friends, Lythea was confident Tyrande would recognize her were they to meet.

"I'd like to see Azshara. Father's always telling stories about it," Jayne mused, her face relaxed as she immersed herself in childhood memories.

"Too many Naga. They might catch you and turn you into a siren or something worse," Lythea teased, trying to picture her friend with a long scaly tail.

"Oh, you think I'd look good asssss a fissssh?" Jayne hissed at her in an imitation of the fallen Kaldorei. They erupted into giggles; her attempt was awful.

"I dunno, but you'd have to get used to flirting with other fish. You might look good compared to some of the myrmidons," she shot back. Lythea grinned, flipping her finished braid over her shoulder as she faced her friend.

Jayne pantomimed a retch, before she tackled Lythea to the bed. They wrestled against each other, laughing happily as they both enjoyed the brief moment of levity.

A knock on the door stopped their play. Lythea took a moment to straighten her robes, and hoped that the flush generated by her playing was unnoticeable.

Zabra was at the door. He raised an eyebrow at her rumpled appearance, but refrained from comment. "Ellesa's all ready for ya, Lythea. Council is startin' soon," He told her.

She turned back to her friend, but Jayne waved her off. "Don't step on anyone's toes and you'll be fine. Good luck!" she told her.

Lythea took a breath, and walked under Zabra's arm out the door.

X_0_X

 **Hello everyone! I'm sorry I didn't have this ready by Christmas; I just wasn't getting the flow I wanted out of the chapter at the time. I hope you're enjoying the story. Leave a review with thoughts or comments; they give me the spirit to keep writing!**

 **Have a Merry Year's End,**

 **-Valasania the Pale**


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